Let's take a stroll in the eldritch light (it is so eerie tonight)
by Afrokot
Summary: Brandishing his torch at John's face Sherlock exclaimed, "We must be there at midnight!"


When Sherlock at long last returned to the realm of the Officially Living (or according to one of the Yard's employees '_was unnaturally resurrected in order to kill us all!' "Oh, shut the hell up already, Anderson!"_), madness returned with him.

John had never really believed in his death to begin with, so after some shouting, long-awaited explanations and a little more shouting (_"Are we good?" - John snarled, "Never better." - "Fantastic!"_), life went back to normal. Well… to as normal, as life with Sherlock could possibly get. Anyway, after a week of research an interesting case had been found: random people mysteriously disappeared, no one knew anything relevant or seen anything suspicious and all clues led to…

" …Nunhead cemetery!"

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, _'come along, we are going to Nunhead cemetery.'_ " Sherlock repeated impatiently.

"What, now?" John finally looked up from the Evening Times he very obviously (and rather pointedly) enjoyed reading.

"Yes, right now. Do keep up." The detective huffed and dashed to his room to fetch a small torch from under the bed.

"But it's almost eleven!" John very reasonably informed his retreating back, like Sherlock could have somehow overlooked such an important detail, honestly! (If you were to ask John, he'd say it was quite probable.)

"Yes, this is exactly the point." Returning to the living room, Sherlock brandished his torch at John's face, "We must be there at midnight!"

"At midnight," John repeated slowly, hoping he hadn't heard it right even the second time. "Nunhead cemetery."

There was a pause and then:

"Oh!.." Sherlock had his thinking face on and - _uh-oh_ - was having an epiphany. John waited.

"You are a doctor…"

"Obviously." Compared to his tone, Sahara is a place with high humidity levels.

"You had invaded Afghanistan…" continued Sherlock undeterred.

"Apparently," was mumbled in a bored voice, slightly muffled by the sound of a folding newspaper.

"And you are afraid of visiting cemeteries at nighttime? How can you…"

"Without much difficulties," John chimed in sarcastically.

" …harbor such a medieval supposition?! Stop it!"

"Stop what?"

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?" asked John primly, arching his left eyebrow.

Sherlock glared. If looks could kill, if only… (His head count would be grandiose.)

"Oh, fine, fine! No more interruptions," rising his hands in a placating gesture promised John.

"Don't be so…" Sherlock forcefully swallowed 'stupid'. It was John's turn to stare and _his_ "Glare of Doom" could actually shut up almost anyone. Most of the time. Nonetheless, he continued, "What, do you think some long since buried corpse will suddenly rise from its grave to commit crimes?" he exclaimed incredulously. "You should know better! Fear of the dead is absolutely meaningless and frankly ridiculous," with a derisive scoff Sherlock turned to get his coat from the rack.

"Let's hope you are right," murmured John quietly.

Sherlock didn't dignify it with an answer.

Sighing heavily, John got up from his chair and went to get ready. In a matter of minutes he was trailing after Sherlock through the front door, his trusted Sig loaded with silver bullets - just in case. Better safe than sorry and dead. Or undead. He had witnessed too many strange, inexplicable things too many times while being abroad to not take them into account now, when the circumstances were so... questionable.

Upon their arrival John found Nunhead cemetery dark, dank, silent and overall creepy in a way that only cemeteries at night can be. Precisely at 12 o'clock they suddenly heard a rustling noise coming from afar: _'shoorhh-shooorhh'_ - pause - _'shoorhh-shooorhh'_.

"Somehow I doubt it's a hedgehog," muttered John reaching for his gun. Once again Sherlock didn't deign to respond.

Then came the moaning. Quiet at first, but slowly growing louder the pitiful sound was becoming eerier with each passing second. In the eldritch light of full moon and only with minimal lighting provided by their torches to keep the darkness at bay they tensed and stood side by side, waiting.

Several minutes later the source of commotion was illuminated: a grotesque figure was heading their way…

Bemoaning "brains", his hands outstretched, bloated and fractured fingers adorned with greasy thick soil pointing straight at Sherlock's chest not-so-recently deceased James Moriarty stumbled between tombstones. Death wasn't kind to him: his skin (what little was left of it after years of decomposing) hanged loosely in shreds revealing a truly horrific sight of riddled with maggots decaying flesh in various shades of purple, green, yellow and black, his tattered closes coated with blackish-green slime. Slack jaw hanging open, he mindlessly staggered forward. Not the prettiest picture, all in all.

Also, the stench, despite several feet distance between them, was almost intolerable.

_'Oh, how the mighty have fallen._ _It's a wonder he became a zombie in the first place,' _mused John, _'Hadn't he shot his brains out?'_

Well, in any case, John was adamantly inclined to rectify the situation by blowing off the rest of Moriarty's head. "Persistent bugger," he murmured with something that would be considered reluctant admiration if he didn't refuse to ever admire anything connected to Jim. Without hesitation, he fired half a magazine in a rapid sequence, successfully beheading the undead.

After a full minute of awkward silence John clear his throat. " _'Meaningless and ridiculous',_ was it?"

Shaking off the shock Sherlock distractedly quoted, "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit." Mere moments later he was going straight into the "Mad scientist: Holmes edition" mod.


End file.
